If I Do Say So Myself
by AnnelisseTheGreat
Summary: [GWHP] 'And then I heard her reply, “Did you say hair brush or airbrush because honestly, I think she needs both!” She didn’t realize I had heard her as she had said it so quietly, but I have fab hearing if I do say so myself.' Lighthearted&Fun Fic. R&R!


**Author's Note:** I've actually got no idea what I'm going to end up writing in this fic, but that just makes it all that more exciting, right? Tee hee. I've never actually said tee hee out loud in real life. To be brutally (or not so bruatally) honest, I think it sounds reeeeally stupid in my head but it's the only word I could think of that expressed my feelings. Does anyone actually read these things other than me? I've got nothing much to say to my fellow fan fiction readers out there (if there even are any) so how about I just stop writing this useless blob, you lot start reading my new fic, and we'll all be happy.

ENJOY!

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**April 21, 9:01 p.m**

I swore I'd never use this thing. But after all that's happened today… oh Merlin. I came home from work this evening and I could just feel this ratty old thing calling to me. I haven't written in here since when? End of fifth year? I could barely even find it but I'm glad I did because I was going bat crazy trying to look for it. Even _accio_-ing it didn't work. I've got no idea why but I'm glad I've got it because I've been bursting to tell someone about my day. This is what I get for having a best mate with a life – I can never find her.

But for the sake of moving things along I'll just start writing already. Why do I even feel the need to explain things to this diary, it's a THING not a person. It doesn't need explaining. Maybe I'm just completely nutters.

Anyhow.

To say that I was a mildly disorganized person would be a _huge_ understatement. I just don't organizing of any kind. I don't like organizing or putting things in order, and to be honest I don't even like colouring in between the lines (not that I do much colouring nowadays, but you get the point). Ask any one who knows me – Ginny Weasley is not one for rules and order and keeping things neat and tidy.

I like to think I have a _zest for life_, and that can't be held up by insignificant little things like remembering to wash my dishes, or put my makeup back in one place so I actually remember where to find it when I get in the mood to put it on. The way I see it, there are much more interesting and exciting things outside of my flat so really, why should I be arsed to colour-coordinate my clothes or something equally as boring?

Thinking about it, I kinda like my disability to keep things in order. And, you know, it's not just my flat that's a little out of order. My whole entire life is. But right now, at this point it's not necessarily a bad thing. I love surprises, and the way I do things makes sure I get lots of surprises. I mean, imagine you're trying to find a pot to cook some pasta in, but when you find a pot, not only do you get the pot, you find your old favourite socks! That's like double the fun. You get to wear your favourite socks _while_ making pasta!

AMAZING.

But these characteristics of mine do tend to cause me trouble when I least expect it, which seems to happen a lot of the time. Take for example this morning. Like usual I woke up to the sound of my alarm clock (or in other words, my next door neighbours routine morning shower singing, which to my delicate (hah) ears is like nails on a chalkboard). I guess it's good that I don't have a snooze button (how awkward would that be anyways? Snooze button on a hairy old man? And what's more, imagine it being on his naughty bits? No thanks, man.)

Anyways, so I wake up right? And I'm all groggy and gross looking with greasy unwashed hair and sleep in my blood-shot eyes (seeing as how last night, with my luck, was just the day my insomnia had to kick in) and I looked at my clock and I was just like, OH CRAP, because it's just my luck that old-man alarm clock decided to sleep in today. So I hop out of my bed, and take a look in the mirror and practically _scream_, because what I see looks like a zombie from the cheesy horror flicks Fred and George take me to for brother-sister bonding time (insert eye rolls from me right about now).

Now if this were any other day, I would pull my hair into a pony tail, throw one of my brothers' old caps on, have a cup of coffee and hit the road for work, but NO, this just had to be the day the boss tells me to come dressed nicely, and looking nice because they're doing an article (with coloured, high-definition digital pictures, mind you) in this new magazine (as if I even remember the name of it) about us. Well now I've got about 6 and a half minutes to get ready for work.

Not impossible, right? I mean I live in a world where I can do MAGIC for God's sake. Makes things a lot easier in the getting-ready department, right? A flick of a wand here, a glamour charm there and bam you look like Kate Moss in a Vogue editorial. Wrong. All wrong. So wrong. Even more wrong then sock and sandals. Maybe it's not wrong for some people, but dear God, I can't even do a hair drying charm properly. How did I even pass my NEWTS? And not to mention, I'm afraid to try because that last time I did I set my hair on fire. As if it wasn't red enough already. Ron said I looked like a goat devil. Which should have been insulting, but Ron coming into my room that day, seeing me and screaming like a girl with a bad pimple, more than made up for it.

So there are 5 minutes and 45 seconds left and I still haven't got into the shower. I scramble off to my bathroom as if I was being chased my Voldemort on a scooter, and get in the shower. Lucky for me my light switch actually works today (I have no window in my bathroom, and I haven't gotten around to fixing it…there's the laziness) and instead of being enveloped in darkness like some terribly unlucky mornings I've had, I can actually see where I'm going! 5 minutes and 24 seconds left and I'm scrubbing myself as if I'd had an encounter with an angry skunk. My normally pale skin looks terribly red but I don't think anything of it. Just the lighting in the bathroom, I think. Oh how I wish it was the lighting now (but we'll get to that later).

4 minutes and 11 seconds and I pour shampoo onto my head. Yum it smells so good, like lavender. I can't dwell on it thought, time is flying like Harry Potter on a broomstick and I need to get things going! Hair washing: MISSION COMPLETED. Ace. I hurry to turn of the shower and almost kill myself in the process, slipping on soapy suds (lucky I caught myself just in time).

And then BAM! Well not really bam, but dammit, the lights turned off! Right when I needed them most! I start to unsuccessfully reach around trying to find my towel so I can dry myself off and finally I find it. 3 minutes and 48 seconds left and I realize all my makeup is somewhere in the loo …at least I think (disorganized, much?)? It always gets mixed up in places. I've found a lipstick in my vegetable crisper once, and thought nothing of it. That was one of the least unusual places.

But back to the subject at hand.

So I'm like a blind woman in my bathroom and there are 3 minutes and 5 seconds left until I'm expected at work (and my boss, although very nice, is a complete twat about being on time) and I don't even think to open the door and let some light in (come to think of it I don't even know why I bother closing the door – I live alone, unless you count my gorgey little puppy). I feel around the bathroom counter for my lipstick or eye shadow, or concealer or something to make me look like less of the complete freak I was that morning and sigh in happiness when I feel that I've found it. 2 minutes and 56 seconds left and I'm out of the washroom finally.

I run down the hallway and then BOOM (no it's not the lights again). I fell. Well more like tripped over a dirty plate (what that was doing in the middle of my hallway is beyond me)… STRAIGHT ON MY NOSE. CAN YOU SAY, HELLO PAIN? Blimey. The towel I had around me came undone so I was completely nuddy just laying in my hallway almost crying because it hurt. No doubt, there would be a bruise there. I couldn't wait. But I didn't have time to cry. Leaving my towel on the ground I ran to my bedroom, and haphazardly threw on some clothes which I thought looked presentable (and if I was lucky) clean.

1 minute and 12 seconds left and I'm thinking _I can make it, I can make it_. I don't even bother looking in the mirror as I put my lipstick on and try to find some shoes that would match with what I'm wearing. Red heels? I don't think so. Clogs? I don't even know _where_ or _when_ I bought those. Sneakers? Not today. Finally I find some sophisticated, but comfortable black shoes, with a small heel. I sigh and look at the time.

43 seconds left. And then I remember – my hair! I couldn't walk into work looking like someone had just dropped a water balloon on my head. I think about it for a second and decide the only thing that could work in this situation is a hair drying charm. I brace myself, clothes my eyes in concentration and say the charm with my wand pointing at my head. 2 seconds later and I crack open one eye, then the next. I take my hands, and feel around the top of my head. IT'S DRY! It feels mildly different I notice, but oh well. I pulled it back into a sleek ponytail and smile. 10 seconds left.

I apparated to work. I ended up right in front of Florean Fortescue's Ice Cream Parlor with seconds to spare. I put a smile on my face, and walked into the parlor with a little bounce in my step. I made it! Ha! A little bell ringed as the door opened and I saw Mr. Fortescue's back facing me, with a mop of white hair on top of his head, as he wiped down on of the circular tables inside the parlor. "Hello Ginny! I see you've made it on time. Miss Skeeter, and her photographer are coming down any minute now, they've just flooed me. I hope you remembered what today was!" he said in a cheerful tone.

I felt proud of myself. Of course I'd remembered that today was the day the reporter was coming down. There was one thing that I took pride in about myself, and that was that when it came to all things work related, I was professional and dignified. I never let my bosses down, and I always came through. I may not be like Hermione – I'm not perfect when it comes to all things work or school related – but I'm close enough. And I've also got a killer "feel sorry for me, I'm just a young girl" smile for when I do do something wrong. So that doesn't hurt.

Then I realized something. "Skeeter, did you say? You mean as in Rita?"

"Oh no! Dear heavens child, do you think I would have accepted that woman's offer? I'm not a total idiot!" Mr. Fortescue chuckled, "It's her daughter!"

I raised an eyebrow. _And that makes it better how_, I thought. Rita had probably taught her all that she knew, right down to using a Quick Quotes Quill for reporting. As if one Skeeter wasn't enough! Mr. Fortescue probably sensed how I was feeling even with his back turned to me. "Oh, she's not at all like her mother! I had enough sense to give her an interview of my own before I let her come into my parlor. She's a perfectly sweet girl! She's just started the magazine on her own, and she seems very eager to interview us – she says she's loved my ice cream since she was three! Fancy that!" he said happily. He continued, "And I say, any publicity is good publicity," and with that final word he turned around to face me.

His mouth opened and a piece of gum fell out. "Ginny, dear, is…is anything wrong today?"

I was confused. Why was he looking at me like that? "No… I don't think so at least?" I stated, but it came out more like a question.

"Well, you seem mighty red today! Did you run here this morning? I've been trying to exercise lately, and that's what my wife suggested."

I frowned. Run? Red? I thought back to the events of the morning. I may have run around my flat this morning a bit more then usual, but I didn't think it was enough to make me look as if I'd run a marathon… "No, no, I didn't do any running,"

"Oh. Well, you might want to take a look at yourself. Maybe fix yourself up a bit? The photographer's coming soon, you don't want to take a bad picture!" If anyone else had said that to me they would have received a very dirty look from me, but I know that Mr. Fortescue means well, so I didn't take any offense to that comment.

"Alright," I said as I made my way to the staff washroom behind the counter. I opened the door and gasped as I faced myself in the mirror.

My skin was a bright red shade – not as red as my hair but if I had to compare it to anything I would say that walking into the Gryffindor common room might be just about equal comparison. Well, maybe that was an exaggeration but I was horrified! I looked like a cherry. And that wasn't a good thing. I was surprised Mr. Fortescue hadn't had a heart attack. Oh god, oh god, oh god. What happened?! Why did I look like such a FREAK? I thought back to what soap I had used in the shower this morning…I smelled my skin, and caught a whiff of apricots.

Apricots? I don't have a soap that smells like apricots. I mean, I have this smelly apricot shampoo for my dog Franny… OH MY GOD. I USED DOG SHAMPOO ON MY SKIN. No wonder it was so red! I was allergic to that stuff! Last time this happened to my skin, it was all on my arms and hands. We went to the emergency room thinking I had a deadly skin disease or something. It took two days to get rid of. And that was with medication. I groaned. I just had the greatest luck this morning, didn't I? I was supposed to pose for pictures like this? Everyone was going to see these pictures! Oh god, oh god.

I stared at myself with a horrified expression as my eyes traveled from the red skin on my face, towards the mess on top of my head. Oh yeah, I'd done the drying charm all right. It was all dry… But it looked like I had an afro. AN AFRO. I'm this pale, freckled red head – AFROS DO NOT SUIT ME. I LOOKED COMPLETELY STUPID. I LOOKED LIKE A Q-TIP. OR A SHAGGY DOG. I felt myself start to sweat from the stress.

Maybe I should have just gone home sick. Just apparate home right then and lie in bed for eternity and wallow in my ugliness. Oh god.

No, I couldn't do that. Of course I couldn't do that. Mr. Fortescue was counting on me! I was his top girl! I'd spent years working for my position, I wasn't about to lose it because of a bad hair day. And bad skin day. And just bad everything day.

Then my eyes traveled towards my lips. I remembered the happiness I felt for finding a lipstick in my dark bathroom. I groaned and closed my eyes tight, hoping that what I saw on my lips was just a trick of the light, or a bad nightmare or something – anything – like that. I opened my eyes again slowly. No it was quite real. I had chosen to put on bright purple lipstick this morning.

Why might you ask, do I have bright purple lipstick in the first place? It's not flattering for me. My hair colour and skin colour don't go with it at all. So why buy it? For Halloween of course. It was Halloween makeup! That's not real makeup! That's for dressing up! Oh god. And since it wasn't Halloween today I looked like a complete idiot. At least this was something I could fix. I grabbed some toilet paper from one of the stalls, spit on it, and began to wipe the lipstick off my lips.

Once that task was finished, I braced myself once more and stood on one of the toilet stalls in front of the mirror so I could have a full body view of myself. I had to control myself from shouting in glee, and giving thanks to Merlin that I had at least picked out some decent clothes.

(It wasn't until much later in the day that someone informed me that the back of my skirt was stuck in my panties, which were coincidentally the ugliest, oldest pair I owned, that had a nice hole right in the middle of the backside.)

I came down from the toilet seat (thanking Merlin once more that I hadn't fallen in, or had something equally as horrible happen) and thought about how I could fix my hair… Hmm. I looked at the sink. Then I looked at my hair.

Sink.

Hair.

Sink.

Hair.

Light bulb! If a drying charm had caused this bird's nest on my head, then water would make it go back to normal! I hoped. I wasn't exactly a whiz at much to do with being a girl. If only my best mate Emily was here with me. She was like the complete opposite at me – completely hopeless at defense, but ask her for a makeover and she would work her magic (literally, and figuratively of course).

I started fixing my hair. Or at least trying to. It was harder then I thought. I let my hair out of the ponytail first and noticed that now my hair had this odd wave to it right in the middle, like a humongous cow lick. Great. I turned the water on in the sink and wet my hands with it, and immediately started patting down my hair, starting from the roots. It was a long process. My hair was like an angry dragon, and I was like a very bad dragon tamer.

An eternity later (which was more like fifteen minutes) I was satisfied enough. Well, not completely enough, but I couldn't afford to waste anymore time. The ice cream parlor would open soon enough, and we had to prepare for the day. As well, I'd heard the ring of the bell from outside, which meant that someone was here. And that someone was Miss Skeeter and her photographer.

I gave myself a final look in the mirror (my hair was back into a ponytail, although this time it was much more subdued) and gave a huge sigh. I walked outside the washroom and back into the parlor where I saw three people sitting in one of the booths. Dear old Mr. Fortescue (bless that man) and a young woman (which I could see was not much older then me) and an older man, with shaggy blond hair and … was that a beret? I put a smile onto my face and approached them as I heard the girl (which I presumed was Miss Skeeter. I felt silly calling her that.) say, " – can stay here throughout the day, you know, observe for a bit, test taste some of the goods (we'll pay of course, Florean!..." (Florean? What on a first name basis already? I've been working for him for 2 and a half years and I'm still supposed to call him Mr Fortescue!) "…take some pictures at the end of the day! I'm sure you'll be pleased with the end result!"

Finally the talking girl noticed me. She looked up at me with beady hazel eyes and gave a slight smile, which I could have sworn looked sort of like a smirk. "Hello there!" she said brightly in a sugar sweet voice that sounded like it was coated in honey. "I'm guessing you are Ginny?"

I could tell she was looking down on me. Like I was dirt. I wasn't going to take any of that. True, it may have been because of my haggard appearance that morning (I still looked like a walking piece of red licorice), but still! Who does she think I am?

"Ginevra Weasley. I'm pleased to meet you, Miss Skeeter," I said with a sweet smile and an equally sweet voice. I could play her game.

"Oh!" she giggled, "Call me Sandra! None of this Miss Skeeter business! That's my mother!" she continued with what she might have thought was a tinkling laugh. Yeah right. Try again.

"Alright, Sandra!" I replied with an equally bright and cheery voice. If she was going to spend the day here, and take pictures, I might as well be nice to her. Maybe she would have some decency and not publish any terribly ugly pictures of me.

Mr. Fortescue interrupted, "We were just talking about the plans for the day, Ginny! Miss Skeeter – oh sorry, Sandra…" he corrected himself as Sandra gave him a playful look, "… and Pierre here will hang around the store and do what they have to do! They'll get a couple of pictures of daily activities, and whatnot and then we'll take a group photo with the staff!"

"That's great, Mr. Fortescue! I'm looking forward to today," I said sincerely. I quite like my job, actually. The people who come here, Mr. Fortescue as my boss (except for the whole punctuality thing), the rest of the employees, cheerful atmosphere and not to mention the free ice cream I got to eat all day, they all made my job amazingly fab. I know tons of people who were jealous. Like Emily. She was always raving on and on about how ice cream was horrible for her diet, but I could tell she would totally apply for my position if I died or something. And not to mention Fred and George's shop wasn't too far away so I could visit them any time I want.

Emily treats them as if they're gods. Always going on and on about how luscious their bums are. That's just sick. I keep telling her that's not an appropriate topic for her to talk about to me because my brain will probably be scarred for life if I have to listen to one more description of what she'd do if she had the twins, some free time, and a bed. Either that or she might have to visit St. Mungo's after I SMASH HER FACE INTO A MAILBOX.

I'm calm now. At least for now.

Anyways, I've got some juicy goss from today, but seeing as how my hand is just about to fall off from all this writing, I'm going to take a break and get back to this thing when the feeling has returned to my fingers.

Pip pip.

**Still April 21, 10:43 p.m **

I'm back! Miss me much? I thought so. My charm and amazing diction have captivated you all, I'm sure.

Oh Merlin, there I go again.

NOTHING IS GOING TO SPEAK BACK TO YOU GINNY. EVER.

Oh, but it has before. Ol' Tom Riddle, remember that? Oh well, he's dead now so that's all hunky-dory.

But back to about the rest of the day (which was right horrible I've got to say). So little miss Sandra and Pierre (who I noticed was amazingly fit underneath that stupid beret of his. He probably wants us all to believe he's from France. Doesn't fool me – after having to put up with Phlegm for many years, I've got to say, I know a Frenchie when I see one.) did do what they said, and hung around the parlor for the entire day. And for the entire day I could feel Sandy's (as she asked me to call her after a bit. I guess we're "friends" now or something) eyes burning into me. I know I looked bad. She didn't have to make it even more obvious.

She followed me around for a better part of the day, asking me questions that I guessed were for the interview. Most of them anyways. It was once she asked me if any dishy blokes came in her often, for _the third time_ that I went to the washroom and didn't come out until I was sure she'd gotten the message. I'm not even sure why I don't like her. She hasn't been anything but nice to me – but personally, whatever someone's first impression is to me, is what they become for the rest of their lives.

So I completely believe that underneath her candy coated exterior she is a complete twit. Not to mention annoying. And Rita Skeeter's daughter as well.

She asked me quite a lot about Harry. Yeah that Harry. I haven't seen him in Merlin knows how long so her questions went unanswered. Now that I think about it, it _has _been a long time since I saw him. After the whole Moldy-Voldy debacle in his seventh year (and my sixth) he disappeared for a bit. He came back soon enough – he wouldn't leave us hanging like that. Just that bloody noble I suppose. But soon after that he was recruited by Mad-Eye for a special program for fighting the dark arts.

I would have thought that Harry would be tired of all this fighting, but I guess after so many years it became his passion. He didn't become an Auror or anything like that. He hated the Ministry of Magic. To be honest, I'm not quite sure what he became but I do know that he goes on much more dangerous missions then regular Aurors, and it's all around the world. The usual missions don't take that long – especially with Harry Potter as one of the leading men – so I hear Harry isn't gone for very long when he does leave the country. But at the same time, he doesn't stay here for very long either. And I've never been able to catch him, or stop by for a chat or anything of that sort whenever he is here.

Oh well. It's not that much of a loss to tell you the truth. True, we were involved during my time at Hogwarts, but it was in my fifth year. I've changed quite a lot since then and I'm sure he's changed quite a lot since the last time I saw him. Hmm, that must have been a few months after I graduated? I think so. I had just begun dating Devon The Wanker (what a disaster that was).

By then mine and Harry's friendship had been dwindling. I had better things to do during my seventh year then to keep up a friendship with someone who was always off in training for his future job. There were NEWTs, new friends, balls to go to (a tradition restarted by yours truly actually. I was Head Girl, and I must say McGonagall does like me quite a bit, so she took my suggestions very well!), and fit boys to snog! Tee hee.

By the time I had graduated I had seen him only at Christmas and then again at Charlie's wedding. And now, I'm a 21 year old, with a great job, great friends and even though I do end up looking like a disaster some days, I wouldn't say I was horribly disfigured or anything like that. I have good things going for me! Who needs, Harry bloody Potter, I say!

And that's what I told Sandy when she asked me about him. She was surprised, to say the least. "But oh my goodness Harry is gorge! Did you know he is supposedly the third richest bachelor in all of Europe? I can't tell you how much I fancy the look of that!" she said giggling.

I raised an eyebrow. No actually, I didn't know that.

She continued relentlessly without waiting for an answer from me. "Is it true you were his first girlfriend?"

Technically, heh. I still hadn't said a word but this girl just kept rambling on and on…

"There _are_ rumours his first was Cho Chang, you know the seeker for the Tutshill Torandos? She's won just about every game they've played for the past year, I think…"

No she hadn't, as a matter of fact. I always say, if you don't know a thing about quidditch then don't even bother opening your mouth to say something about it. Because it will always end up sounding stupid. Always.

"Ginny?" Sandy looked at me quizzically. Seems I had dozed off while she just kept talking. Oops.

"Yes?" I answered innocently. I may have looked monstrous but I didn't want her to print bad things about me – I could be a nice monster! Really, I could.

"Oh gosh, never mind, I must have sounded so silly going on and on about Harry Potter!"

Just a little, I thought rolling my eyes. She seemed to see this movement and frowned a little bit. Suddenly becoming professional again she said, "Well I guess I'll be off then! Can't stay around chit chatting all day can we? Must get some work done as well,"

"Well that's a shame," I said nonchalantly, and then continued, "I guess I'll be seeing you around then,"

"Yes. Well, goodbye,"

"'Bye," I said. Thank Merlin that was done.

For the rest of the day she avoided me. But the rest of the day wasn't very long anyways, and soon enough it was time to take staff picture they would be definitely printing in the article. I had dreaded this moment all day long, although Pierre was constantly snapping pictures of the parlor the whole day, and I was sure I was in some of them at least. I quickly made my way into the loo again and gave a groan. Was it possible that I could look even worse then I did in the morning? It was almost 5 o' clock and my hair had dried and although it was still poofy and frizzy and gross it was more controlled then before (I'd gotten my hands on some gel during my lunch! Take that evil hair of doom. I CONTROL YOU NOW.)

But my skin – blimey, it had gotten quite a bit less red during the day, but now I looked like Eloise Midgeon in her fifth year. From a distance it looked as if I had spots all over my face and chest and arms – like one big greaseball who didn't wash her face. Lucky for me, I'd never had a huge problem with spots. Sure I'd had a couple here or there, but never anything that looked as bad as I did now.

And they weren't even real spots.

There didn't seem to be a way to fix it (magic or no magic) so I made my way out where I found everyone waiting for me. I gave an apologetic smile and stood next to the group, as I heard Pierre mumble, "Maybe we should ask 'er eef she would like zee airbrush?"

And then I heard Sandy reply, "Did you say hair brush or airbrush because honestly, I think she needs both!" She didn't realize I had heard her as she had said it so quietly, but I have fab hearing if I do say so myself.

What a prat, though. I did have to admit she was right. It was too late to do anything now though. So I posed for the pictures. Pierre just kept snapping them though and growling randomly at us, telling us to look "fierce". I already looked like a monster so I figured I was fierce enough, and just kept smiling. I don't think he minded much. I feel bad now though, I probably ruined a perfectly normal picture. Oh well!

Sucks for Sandy.

To be honest, had it been any other day, the Sandy and Pierre would have found that I could be positively charming and I could have added to the beauty of the shot (us employees here at Florean Fortescue's Ice Cream Parlor, are not a bad looking bunch, ha). My normal hair was a deep red, and rather wavy. I didn't really have to style it all that much. It was cut in such a way where it would air dry and look perfectly fine, and I do admit, I get many jealous stares when I tell girls (or women? How old do you have to be to be considered a woman anyways? 21? 34? Is there even a specific age? I'm so confused.) that I normally don't use any products, or hair straighteners, or curlers or things of that sort, in it.

It sort of made me laugh to be honest. It's just hair for Pete's sake (and another question ... WHO IS PETE? It's bothered me my whole life. Thinking about Pete frustrates me.). I would cut it all off just so I wouldn't have the hassle of dealing with it all the time (it was rather long), but Emily said she'd chop my head off if I even _dared_. I'm actually down right terrified of her sometimes. Especially when she said that, because her eyes sort of started glowing in this menacing way and one of my wine glasses broke. As if I even own a bottle of wine.

But it was Creepy (with a capital C).

And normally, my skin isn't a horrible mess – it's pale with a splattering of freckles across my nose and cheekbones. I used to have freckles EVERYWHERE, but by the end of my sixth year most of them had disappeared. I like my freckles though – I think they give me character. Sort of. And the red hair and freckles distinguish me as a Weasley and I'm proud of that no matter how poor we were when I was growing up. I love my family more then anything even though my brothers are meddling fools most of the time, and my mom makes me eat more then my stomach can handle, and my dad has a strange obsession with all things Muggle.

They're all right though. Really! No honestly. No porkies from me, yes siree Bob.

I'm satisfied with myself, most of the time at least. I'm not very tall – only 5'3 and a half. It's not very handy for reaching tall shelves but those are the times my wand comes in handy. No wonder they taught us _wingardium leviosa_ in first year – even I can do that. I do think I might start working out soon. You know, go to the gym work up a little sweat, and all that. Ever since I started working at the ice cream parlor, I do believe I've gained some weight – not gonna lie. I used to be quite a bit thinner - naybe too thin in my opinion - but Quidditch definitely helped with that. Angelina and Harry had us running laps all the time. Apparently all the previous team captains worked their teams like that as well. I believe Angelina said something along the lines of, even if we don't beat them, at least we'll look better.

Right now though, I'm slightly plumper. It don't mind at all. I quite like it that I don't get comments on how thin I am when I get into a bikini . I also quite like not being able to see my ribs. But my mum still over feeds me even though she approves of my weight now. But I still do think I could do with toning up a bit.

Anyways, I'm yawning excessively now, and Franny's barking at me so I can stop writing and get sleeping.

**TTFN!**

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Well how was that? Liked it? Hated it? Feel like smashing _my_ face into a mailbox? It's all good. 


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